


Time Like Grains Of Sand

by captainkilly



Series: all the devils [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Civil War (Marvel), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks she'd rather have a cold tomb around her than the dirt that would come to life around her.</p><p>Wonders if she can make demands now that she's got a new lead and no intent of giving up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Like Grains Of Sand

It's four in the morning.

She knows this because she has been seated against her bed's headboard for two hours now. She also knows this because she has been glaring at her alarm clock for just as long a time. She feels wide awake. It's the kind of awake you are when you bypass all levels of exhaustion to land at the weird stasis of hyper-wired. She knows she's not getting any more sleep tonight. 

Her hands reflexively curl around the blanket that's strewn haphazardly over her legs. It's really too warm for this time of year now, but she can't put it away with the rest of winter. If she holds it long enough, she can smell blood and gunpowder on her own hands. With it comes the feeling that she's safe, that she's not lost all her ties to this city after a lawfirm is no longer a lawfirm and after.. She shakes her head as if to clear it from cobwebs. Nothing good comes from that train of thought. 

Nothing good comes from Hell's Kitchen. She knows that now that she's awake for the third night in a row. She knows that now that there have been threats aimed at her directly. It's varied from "I'll cut you up", slurred by some gang member right before he was carted off to jail, to the message lying on top of the blanket. She's still waiting on the variances of the former to make good on their threats. Thinks they never will, not now that she's aligned in their minds with a certain skull-bearing vigilante. But the latter is what scares her. They seem to know more of her history than she's ever even shared with friends. They seem undeterred by promises of retribution for everything that's done to her. And now the black words on off-white paper are glaring up at her with sharp strokes and angry dots, and she no longer feels at ease.

 _Stop digging,_ it tells her. _Stop digging or we will dig you a shallow grave beside your brother._

They don't even need to tell her what to stop digging into. The threats have come her way since she saw the files about experimental military programs in Trish Walker's apartment and went out to grab more information herself. She thinks that the minor attacks she's suffered are their way to deter her. The shooting incident was the worst of it for a while. Trish now walks around with a cane and a slight limp, claiming that all of this just makes her look as posh as she tends to sound. Karen secretly loves her for it even when it's four in the morning and all she can think of is how being buried will feel.

She thinks she'd rather have a cold tomb around her than the dirt that would come to life around her.

Wonders if she can make demands now that she's got a new lead and no intent of giving up.

*****

It's eight in the morning when Trish stumbles into her apartment and unceremoniously drops three bags on the floor.

She raises her eyebrow at the blonde. Gestures at the bags. "What's this?" she asks. 

"This," sighs Trish, "is the smartest idea I have had since last week." The woman shrugs her brown jacket off. Frowns for a second. "Coat hanger?"

"Haven't had one since that one guy tried to get into my apartment three days ago and I hit him over the head with the coat rack," admits Karen. Trish just tuts at her in response and folds the jacket neatly over the bags instead. Lightly taps her cane on the floor as she makes her way to the small table. Karen follows her. "What? I don't get out much."

"No wonder," responds the woman lightly. She is still holding a small, pink box in her hand. "You could probably redecorate this entire apartment with the blood of our enemies at this rate. It might actually be an improvement over the bullethole remnants."

"Not my style."

"No, it's not yours." Trish agrees readily and drops into a chair unceremoniously. "But," she says when she pushes the pink box over the table at Karen, "it is his."

Karen frowns at her. They don't have to identify who she's talking about. She knows that Trish has taken to unanimous approval of the man since that day outside the DA's office when he interrupted something that could've killed both women. She went back on her own condemnation of him with every scrap of information he sent her. It's his honesty that runs through her life like a red thread to cling to. She does not want to admit that scares her, too.

"What's the box about?"

"It was waiting for me when I got home. Left on the table alongside a little note to recheck my balcony security." Trish sounds exasperated and tired as she explains. "I feel as shitty as you look, to be honest, but that's neither here nor there. The box had a little something for me and a little something for you. I'm not sure why he bothered to give me one too, but here we are.."

"Give you what?" she asks. "And, thanks, you know, for the awful compliment."

"My pleasure," remarks the other woman lightly. A small smile plays around her lips. "Go ahead and open it. He left me instructions as to what to do with mine. He didn't leave you any, so I think you'll figure it out."

She reaches for the box tentatively. Feels the sturdy cardboard under her fingers as she lifts the top off it. She blinks at the small object inside it that's comfortably wedged in a bucketload of purple tissue paper. She barely registers Trish telling her that the box came with a neatly-tied bow and the same old skull-signed card. Disregards the woman's observation that the man's deceased wife must have taught him how to make gifts look presentable, even though it's probably the truth that makes the significance of his efforts all the more painful. She reaches into the box and picks up the cellphone. Switches it on.

"You've got one too?" she asks Trish. 

"Yup. He left me a little note with the unlock code. I don't know how he figured out my connection with Jessica, but he picked her birthday for the code. Maybe that's the same for you? The birthday of someone he knows you care about?"

Karen shakes her head. "No, no, he wouldn't. Not anymore." Not since he realised that she had not found out about Matt before he did, and certainly not since she spent an entire article criticising Daredevil's every move. He would not tell her to hold onto that with both hands anymore when there is nothing to hold on to. She pauses at the innocent-looking standard lockscreen. Doesn't even think about what her fingers type in next.

_0-3-8-0_

The phone makes a small noise that almost sounds like approval. Of course, he would use her gun as the code. Trish observes her with nothing but a raised eyebrow as she sinks down into the other chair. She lets out a breath she doesn't even know she's been holding. Her fingers stumble on the screen as she clicks through to messages, showing a tiny '1' in their corner that she knows is an unread something that can only be his. She hisses in frustration as her tap of the icon doesn't immediately take her through to the inbox. Once it does, she almost laughs at his 'Dead Man' handle he pre-programmed for her before focusing in on what it says.

__

She almost imagines interrupting him in the middle of one of his killing sprees with a phonecall about how she's run out of coffee at three in the morning. He would probably deem that a crisis solid enough to call him for, given his love of the drink. She still calls his murders killing sprees because she has seen the up-and-close reality of the ruin he creates out of human bodies. Keeps telling herself there is no forgiveness for that, but it's hard to maintain that when he calls his own safekeeping attempts of her _pitiful_.

"God, I feel like I am watching an entire soap opera play out on your face right now." Trish's wry observation is riddled with amusement. She ducks her head in response to that. She knows she wears her heart on her sleeve. Always has. She's not a liar, though somewhat skilled at misdirection. Trish is almost laughing out loud as she continues talking, and Karen shakily finds herself joining in laughing at her vivid description. "He introduced himself in his text to me as _'hi, I am Frank -- nice right hook you got there'_ that could almost have been a pick-up line if I didn't know his history by now. Told me he was available for information sharing and the sort. He sounded all business. But I'd wager that's not what he said to you."

"No, it's not." Karen shakes her head. Tilts the phone at Trish so she can read it. "No compliments on my right hook."

"He's never even seen yours, has he? You should surprise him with that!" The blonde almost grows excited at the prospect. Her eyes glint with the remembrance of teaching Karen what she called _'basic self-defense'_ and what Karen dubbed _'grueling hell of doom and agony'_. Still, she can't deny that Trish's lessons came in handy on more occasions than she currently cares to admit. "He calls you ma'am, though? How formal.."

"He's always done that. It's how I know it's Frank. He probably used it as an identifier in the text to me as much as his compliment on your right hook was his identifier to you." She tucks her hair back behind her ear as she talks. Thinks it's almost normal to be sitting in her kitchen speaking with Trish about a friendly neighbourhood murderer this early in the day. "Now, can you explain the bags and everything?"

"Easy. You text him right now telling him you have a lead upstate you need his help on. Bag number one has your basic travel essentials. Bag number two has all the papers and information relevant to what he needs to know about your lead. Yes, I invaded Ellison's personal space on this about an hour ago and no he was not thrilled with me. He knows you're taking time off to focus on this lead. Told me that if I didn't make sure you lived, he would make sure I didn't live either. Bag number three is filled with sensible clothes and shoes. Don't give me that look."

"Wow, you really have it all mapped out already huh? Did it not occur to you that I can't simply take time off work now that they're pushing that Superhuman Registration Act? Did it not occur to you that my lead upstate could potentially get me killed?" She is aware that her voice wavers and stutters a little now that she is freaking out, but decides she doesn't care. This whole thing is ridiculous. "Did you not hear me telling you last night that I got yet another threat?"

"Yes, I heard you perfectly, which is why I am telling you to send the fucking Punisher who scares everyone but you shitless a text telling him you need his offer of help right now please and thank you." Trish's voice turns into a vehement hiss as she stares Karen down. "I have made the deal with Ellison to write a piece or three about that registration act, which will coincide with my radio show special on the same subject. I may not be as good as you -- no, I'm not, don't give me that look! -- but I will get it done until you get back. And you will get back if you do what I say. You won't die from this."

"Trish.."

"Just say yes."

*****

It's four in the afternoon and she is sitting in her apartment waiting for a knock on the door.

Trish left about three hours ago with all the casual fanfare she does so well. They spent the better part of the hours speaking about the articles the woman intends to write about the Superhuman Registration Act and how they relate to the current climate in Hell's Kitchen. Neither one of them mentioned Wilson Fisk acting like a kingpin in jail, though the subject of the man is never far from their minds as they deal with the excesses of his influence. Various small-time criminals have informed them the man intends to go after Nelson & Murdock. Karen knows that Trish gives Foggy all the information she has on that every time she strolls into Hogarth's office to retrieve Jessica from a harebrained notion or another, but doesn't know if it's going to be enough.

She prays it will be enough every single night.

She finishes lacing up her boots and ties them expertly. It feels strange to her to be out of her usual comfort zone of skirt and neat blouse. She can't stop playing with the zipper on one of her pant pockets. She's checked and re-checked everything she owns to make sure it's in its proper place. The only thing not in its place is the gun lying on the table in front of her. It's a weight she knows well, even when it's not in her hand. She knows he'll make her bring it with her. The thought of that is enough to make her take a deep breath and stare fixedly at the doorknob. 

She jumps almost a foot into the air when the soft knock finally comes.

Next thing she knows, she's flying toward the door undoing all of its three locks and sliding back the safety latch in the space of seconds. She pauses for a moment. Calls out his name softly through the door. There is silence that expands into a heartbeat. For a moment, she thinks he hasn't heard. ( _Or worse, or worse, or worse,_ her mind chants.)

"Ma'am?" comes the reply, then. 

The soft rumble of his voice through the door makes her rest her forehead to the wood for a second. She can't help but smile when she opens the door. She opens the space to her apartment seconds later, because he's looking over his shoulder when he steps over the threshold and she doesn't know why his shoulders are tense like he expects a fight any time now. He stands mere inches away from her when he shuts the door and locks it again. 

He turns around to look at her, then, and her hand falls away from the zipper she has been toying with all afternoon. She bites her lip almost in a reflex as she studies him. He looks less bruised and more well-rested than all the other times she's seen him. He's not wearing anything with the semblance of a white skull on it. He looks as non-descript as Frank Castle could probably ever look. Her heart constricts against her chest when she realises he's never looked this normal. He looks like he's a regular man about to take his family on a trip. It feels like her heart's about to tear itself away from her altogether.

"Hi Frank," she breathes softly into the air between them. "I'm glad you came."

"You've picked a fine time to go out on a trip," he says to her. It takes a moment for her to register that the tone in his voice is not annoyance but approval. "I was wondering when you would, you know? Get out of the area and take some time and distance."

"I'm going out there to follow up on a lead. It's not like it's a vacation or anything." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Tries to look him in the eye, but he's pointedly not looking at her. "Thanks for, uh, coming with me."

"Walker's smarter than she looks."

"She is. I thought I could do this by myself. She overruled me."

He looks at her for a long time, then. His dark eyes search her face. Slip down further to her feet before abruptly coming back up again. His breath comes out in a huff. "You could do it." He sounds remarkably assured of himself. His eyes don't even stray to her gun once, though she thinks he's probably seen it on the table by now. Something unspoken hangs in the air between them for a moment. "Not your first rodeo, right?" 

She laughs softly. "You keep harping on about that," she tells him goodnaturedly. "You don't even know if I'm good at that rodeo. Who knows, I may have fallen off my high and lofty horse any number of times."

"With that kind of rodeo, it's the fall you don't come back from," he tells her then. "You're still standing, Miss Page."

"It's Karen," she responds with a slight hum in her voice. She doesn't even know if he's ever addressed her by her first name. It's always been ma'am. Always with that tone of respect in his voice that she hasn't been able to kick or scream out of him. She's not sure what she'd have to do to lose his respect. Decides right then and there that she never wants to find out. She pauses for a moment. Then looks at him. "How exactly are we going to do this without anyone noticing? Neither one of us is exactly what you'd call inconspicuous."

"I've got a van parked outside. It's packed with most of my stuff, but I can wedge you in there no problem. Were we to move late at night, people would sit up and take note. We might get a little luckier during the day. Now, Walker texted me right before I pulled up here. Said that I shouldn't forget to ask you about a certain threat..?"

She lets loose a string of curses that would make a sailor proud. Her fingers run through her hair and snag on a knot. It's so typical. Trish can never leave things alone once she worries over them. She would've been fine not mentioning it to Frank. The last thing he needs is more paranoia. The last thing she wants is for him to worry about her just as Trish worries about her. That's what she told herself at three in the morning when she was shaking so much she thought she was going to be sick. She can handle this alone. That's what she keeps telling herself. So she shakes her head at him. Begs him with tired eyes to please leave it alone. 

He raises his hands at her in a motion of surrender. She briefly flashes back to the one other time he stood in her apartment. He'd raised his hands like that back then because she'd told him to. Used the tone of voice with him that was equal parts _'do as I say'_ and _'please do not make me do this'_ while holding him at gunpoint. Then, the shooting had started. And she had been safe, so safe, cradled underneath him.. 

She shakes her head again to clear the memory.

"You good, ma'am?" he asks her carefully. His tone of voice has dropped down from its usual rumble to a hushed tone. "If you need a moment.."

"I'm fine," she then tells him decisively. Convinces herself of it the minute she says it. "Let's just get out of here."

She almost laughs when he wordlessly holds out a holster to her that will probably fit her gun to perfection. He knows the measure of what she carries, so she knows he would not just have picked something at random. It looks rather complicated with all the different straps that should cross her body. She frowns at him when she attempts to fasten it around her waist and hold her shirt up at the same time. Huffs in annoyance when she doesn't get it right. Jokes that by the time she gets this on, she could already be dead and buried from old age.

He chuckles at her, then, and his hands tentatively reach for her. She resorts to just holding the shirt up, with her fingers barely skimming her ribcage. She doesn't like to touch her body or look at it in any mirror. The hisses of _'too thin'_ and _'come here'_ haunt her in equal measure. He's unaware of what haunts her. Unaware of the thoughts lingering in her mind. His fingers hold the soft straps to her body and tighten them around her with practiced ease. He murmurs a soft curse when one comes undone again. She gazes at him when the heat of his skin travels from her waist to her hips to fasten the straps to the loops on her pants. Thinks he must be haunted, too, in the way he refuses to look at anything but his hands and the way his fingers rest lightly on her belly. His touch has always been gentle, even in the centre of danger. His hands loop behind her back to fasten the last strap. 

She smiles now that he stands close enough for her to breathe him in. His scent is not blood and gunpowder like last time, though she recognises the smell of the strongest coffee anyone could safely drink. The rest of it is a summer's day after rain -- _petrichor,_ her mind supplies -- and she almost gasps out loud when she thinks of home for the first time in forever. She remembers Vermont's humidity before she ever recalls its maple syrup. The air around her used to constrict with the same scent that fills her nostrils now. 

"All set," he murmurs. His hands fall away from her abruptly. He moves away slightly and she is ten seconds away from begging him to come back until the cool metal of her gun fills her hand. She checks the safety again without looking, even though she knows she already checked it twice this morning. He guides her hands to the holster and teaches her how to attach the gun to it. His gestures are practiced with the ease of handling firearms on an everyday basis. "Make sure you wear a loose coat or something to cover that up."

"Yup, last thing we need is for me to get caught with an unauthorised firearm," she agrees readily. He shoots her a glance at that, but does not comment. "Can you get the duffle bag for me? I'll take the rest."

She grabs a light green jacket from her bed. Checks the mirror briefly to see if she's all covered. It's still strange to her to not have to shrug long hair over her jacket. The decision to cut it off was made in an instant. She'd never feel clean with the memory of Trish's blood soaking the light strands. But she misses it, sometimes, though it makes her more invisible to the men she incriminates. She feels rather silly to look around her apartment one more time before she walks out, as if she is never coming back to it at all, but she looks at the rushed fix she gave all the bulletholes and at the sink that almost exploded and feels a fondness for the home away from home she's quite sure she can never replicate. 

Then she stands out there in the hallway and the door closes behind her. She fumbles with the keys for a moment. Hears one lock after the other click into place.

It feels final.

*****

It's eight in the evening.

At least, she thinks that's what the numbers on the van's dashboard are telling her. She rubs her eyes sleepily. Yawns.

"Welcome back," he comments to her left. "Not that you missed much.. We got out of the traffic jam, though."

"Thank god. I'm sorry I fell asleep on you back there."

"Don't be. From the looks of it, you needed a break. You did miss my perfect rendition of some old songs, though."

She laughs out loud at that. The first hour of their trip had mostly been spent in companionable silence. By the time they hit the jam, they'd switched on the radio to get more information about what was going on in their area. One completely non-essential news recounting later, Frank had begun humming along with the songs playing softly through their speakers. The longer the jam took to resolve, the more he had begun to sing. She thinks she must have fallen asleep somewhere after _Shining Star_. Almost wishes to apologise for that a second time, but she knows he wouldn't hear of it.

She stretches out in her seat. The van is thankfully somewhat less cramped than she had expected. She feels like a guest in his space, especially now that she has seen the mattress in the back. It does not feel the same as his house did back when she had not even met him. Maybe it's because the house was a shared space, while this is purely his. She's silently grateful for that. _This_ is how she knows him. He is as comfortable with driving as he is with fighting. He keeps a thermos of coffee next to him at all times. He hums along with songs she doesn't even know while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along with their beat. He glances at her every so often. If she focuses in on him long enough, she thinks she can see him checking the mirrors and road ahead with all the caution of a man who's been to war.

"Why Plattsburgh?" he suddenly asks her, jolting her out of her reverie. "What did you find?"

"Mostly just a lot of loose ends leading to and from there," she responds thoughtfully. "It used to house quite the military presence until they closed the airbase in the mid-nineties. Most of their operations centred around missiles and the like, so that's not really worth much in regards to our research. Yet, over half the men involved in high-profile functions there later went on to other missions. Many of them relate in with drugtrade or experimentation."

"Like Kandahar," he states.

"Exactly like Kandahar," she affirms for him. Notices how his knuckles tighten around the steering wheel as she continues speaking. She has half a mind to reach out to him, but refrains when she sees the look on his face that's not dissimilar to a wild animal's. "That's only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There are several conspiracies out there about the base being used as a brainwashing facility for young children and some other things that sound like a scifi movie. Most of it is outlandish stuff, but some of it connects in with the old super soldier program that brought forth Captain America."

"There were rumours, back when I was still in, about them wanting to replicate that experiment. We never took it that seriously. Never saw anyone getting tagged for it or anything. It was just one of those persistent things that seemed to have no real weight to them. Hell, I joked about it one time saying that all the fitness tests they gave us were just another way of determining the next Captain."

"Do you think the military gave up on it after WWII or something?"

He shoots her a long look, then. "I don't think so. We're notoriously bad at giving up, you know." He doesn't have to explain that. She's seen him keep going at the worst of times. "Just saying, it may be a lot harder to find than you think.. We're notoriously good at cover-ups." There's a note of pride in his voice before he grimaces. He looks angry for a second. "Do you think that this relates back to.. to me? My family?"

"It might," she cautions him, "and then it might not. The Colonel was just one man heading one squad of people aligned with him. He had the largest role in what happened at the park." Her voice turns soft as she reaches for his hand. Her fingers interlace with his. She squeezes down gently. "But there could be more. The warning they gave me, to stop digging.. It feels menacing. They wouldn't let it sound like that if they had nothing to hide."

"So we go into the lion's den."

"Dragon cave," she corrects without thinking. Smiles at him when he turns in his seat slightly to give her an incredulous look. "I always liked those stories better when I was little. Dragons and dinosaurs. I used to think they'd coexisted."

"So did Lisa," he shares with a raspy tone in his voice. "She'd like you very much, ma'am."

"I hope so." She hums softly as she removes her hand from his. She folds her hands into her lap. Looks out the window at the trees growing skyward and the clear road ahead. Blinks away stray tears that are threatening to form. _For his loss for his loss for his loss that screams out in the silence between them._ "I would've liked to meet her."

He doesn't say anything to that. Doesn't even look at her now. His hand merely reaches over to her folded hands and clamps down on them tightly. It feels like he is a man who's desperate not to drown. She extracts one hand from his grasp with some difficulty and places it over his.

She can't help but think this feels like a new sort of home.

*****

It is somewhere around midnight.

She doesn't exactly know what the time is. The back of the van is much darker than she had expected, so dark that she cannot read the time on her watch. The traffic jam had set them back at least an hour, if not more, and they had only rolled up to see Plattsburgh a short while ago. Nobody in their right mind would request a motel room this late and not be memorised, though, especially as the few motels they had passed on the way looked more luxurious than the typical roadside amenities. He had steered the van into a small woodland area with nothing more than light curses on his lips.

The mattress is more comfortable than it looked at first glance. He had ended all arguments about her taking it before she even started. Frank Castle was not about to let a woman take the floor, oh no. He had shaken his head at her and defiantly seated himself on the floor. She suspects he would have carried her onto the mattress if she had dared try and take the floor next to him. 

A tiny voice in the back of her head tells her that maybe she would have liked him to.

She clamps down on that immediately. Refuses to go there in this space inside of her. She tries to settle for curling up and listening to his steady breaths. There is a restlessness inside of her that she cannot give voice to, however, and she sits up abruptly.

"Can't sleep?"

"Just.. spooked."

"The ghost of Christmas Past," he replies into the quiet. "I know that drill."

"Some shitty Christmas my ghosts make," she breathes into the space between them with a shaky laugh. "I feel like all the time in the world can pass and they're still going to be pressing down on me like they did on the first day they were created."

"Maybe that's what our ghosts are." She notes the 'our' with surprise, but doesn't say anything to that. "Maybe they are just our soul feeling the weight of its mortality. Once you take a life, it starts to react to gravity. There's all this air around us and we can't lift our feet off the ground anymore."

"A fall from grace?"

"Maybe. I was religious once." He laughs sharply at that, which really says to her _'not like Red'_ and translates as _'not like Matt'_ and makes her release a breath she doesn't even know she's been holding. "People just don't stay the same forever. We make do with what we have. Everyone deals with things differently and there cannot be judgment for that while we are living."

"Unless we judge ourselves."

"Do you?"

He partially rises from the floor and scoots over until he is seated next to her mattress. Her eyes have grown used to the dark around them. She can see his profile outlined next to her. His head is bowed and his body language more relaxed than she has ever seen him. She scoots over to where he is sitting. Is so close to him that her breath probably becomes a ghost on his neck. She is quiet for a little while. She weighs the words she's about to speak carefully. It's not about telling the truth, because she's always been honest with him. It's about saying it in a way that says it all without needing to explain.

She finds the words. 

"I judge myself more than I judge you."


End file.
